Not So Alone
by MabelOverture
Summary: John receives a call one morning and finds himself in a place he hasn't been in since before he met Sherlock. Through the days that follow, he realizes that he doesn't have to be as alone as he was before. Written as friendship, feel free to squint.


**Just wanted to write something...this is how I imagine the two of them would handle death if it were more personal. **

Sherlock tried to pinpoint the moment he should have noticed. When he should have noticed that John Watson was really not alright. He thought back to the phone call itself, to the moments after, to the days that followed. Of course, logistically, he knew John was quite upset...it was only human nature. But of course, Sherlock recognized that because of his own sociopathic nature, he shouldn't expect himself to know how deep John was hurt. Yet when he did finally notice, Sherlock felt truly sad for John. Like his own heart was too heavy when he looked at him...he despised that John felt so deeply and that it affected him in the way it did. And then Sherlock felt guilty for doing next to nothing up until he saw through John. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered the irony of his sociopathic label.

It was 8 days ago. They were having breakfast as usual, John sitting at the kitchen table and Sherlock across from him. It was actually quite a lovely day, the sun was shining a softly and the whole flat was laced with the smell of warm tea. John had been reading the paper at the time, when he adjusted his position to reach into his back pocket for his phone. It was buzzing. Putting his toast down, he answered as any normal person might, unaware of the words that would follow. Sherlock glanced up at John, noting how his face had gone from relaxed to furrowed and hollow. Already concerned of the matter of the call, he waited until John hung up. Which he finally did, without saying a single word to the other caller the entire time.

"What's wrong? Who was that?" Sherlock asked.

"I, uh..." John looked vehemently overwhelmed. He was staring off at the living room carpet, as if searching for an unattainable answer. He rose suddenly and collecting his jacket from the coat tree, he began to leave. Following him with confused eyes, Sherlock heard him say off-handedly that he had to go somewhere. The door closed.

Now alone, Sherlock stood from the table and walked to the window, watching John exit. He watched him put a hand up to his temples and stand there for a moment. Then he just started walking, without real direction. Sherlock's eyes kept on his friend until he was out of sight, then he immediately picked up his phone and dialed a rarely dialed number.

"Well this is a surprise. Well, perhaps not." said Mycroft.

"So you know. What's happened?" Picking up on that last bit, Sherlock knew something was wrong.

"He's obviously not told you...you should wait until he does, Sherlock. I can only imagine the sort of pain he's experiencing." Mycroft meant it. He felt awful for John, for he himself cannot imagine being in the same situation. It would break him to be in John's shoes.

"Tell me." Sherlock insisted. He could hear Mycroft sigh on the other end.

"Someone's clearly dead, or getting there." Sherlock began deducing. "Knowing his history as well as-"

"Sherlock, enough." The harsh tone of his brother cut Sherlock off. "He is your closest friend, he will tell you when he is ready. Respect his immense humanity, Sherlock. For once." The cut and dead tone of the line forced Sherlock to pocket his phone after staring at it for a moment. What a strange way to act...even for Mycroft. It must have been a touchy subject. He sighed and plopped into his chair. Maybe he should text John...

No. He'll come back soon, approximately 40-43 minutes. If he's upset, he won't want to go anywhere specifically but he'll want to be out long enough to sort out his thoughts. No more than an hour, and they could talk about it. Always the reclusive to emotions, Sherlock was not looking forward to that talk.

John did come home. They did not talk about it. At least not in the way Sherlock imagined.

"Sorry, Sherlock, I just needed a walk." He had said after sitting in his armchair across from his friend.

"What's happened?" He decided to just jump right into it.

"Um..." John took a long, deep breath. "Harry died last night."

Oh.

Sherlock imagined many scenarios...he deduced most of them down to a problem with someone of John's past, from the military. There was still a war, after all. Many of the people John knew were still over there, many of them being shot at. It had made sense to conclude that to be the morning's phone call topic. He cursed himself for not considering the alcoholic sister.

"Oh...I'm. Well, I'm sorry, John." He felt his heart drift to a consolable place...they rarely spoke of it, but he knew how much Harriet had meant to John. He knew how it tore him apart to face her depressing habits. To think about it.

John could hear the honesty in his friends voice, but John did not want to talk about it. John was the sort of person that much preferred to help others with their pressing issues, but keep his to himself. He didn't like the pity, the sadness, the uncontrollable emotions of those sorts of talks, at least not when it came to his own life. He'd faced enough obstacles, he didn't enjoy lingering on them.

"Thank you, Sherlock. It's um, well." _It's probably long overdue._ He thought bitterly. Damn Harry, damn her for what she's done. John loved Sherlock, and was glad he was in his life. His mind drifted to a dark place imagining how different he would be acting at the moment if he did not know Sherlock.

"Do you, should we talk about it? I mean, are you alright?" Sherlock loved John. He genuinely wanted his flatmate to be OK, he recoiled to the thought of John's heart in a dark place.

"Nope, I don't. It's fine, really. I was preparing myself for this, so it's fine. Alcohol poisoning, it's a bitch. I'm sure you saw it coming the day we met." He didn't mean it in a bad way, in fact when he said it he sounded completely flat. He was looking at the window. Sherlock however, was looking right at John. _A week_. He thought to himself. _John will grieve the most violently in the first week, and then he will accept it, and he can begin living again. _He decided to let John be during that time, and then he'd 'miraculously' find a case that he just absolutely needed John's help with. A case fixed John up the first time, he was certain it would do the trick this time too.

A week passed, and John did not perform any of the events Sherlock predicted. There wasn't a single breakdown, not even a tear. There was no sudden anger, no self-isolation. He wasn't himself by any stretch, but the death of a family member would affect an ordinary person differently than it affected John. He didn't even miss a single day at work. Sherlock had not predicted that.

He did notice how empty John seemed, however. Any conversation they shared held no point. His eyes were on auto-pilot. The bags under them were dark and looming. It was time for that case.

They went to Scotland Yard and traversed into Lestrade's office, where he began handing out files and photos of evidence.

"See, what we can't seem to understand is where this guy has gone. He's targeted numerous gas stations and convenience stores, but his targets are all over the place. The witness reports are contradicting, there's no pattern, and..." Although he was still speaking, Sherlock stopped listening. So easy. He was almost disappointed in Lestrade, but reminded himself of the departments weak capability.

"We'll take it." He said, interrupting the Inspector. Greg looked up at him in slight amazement, not really expecting him to take such a trivial case.

"What, really?"

"Oh yes, very interesting. I can see why you needed us." Greg squinted his eyes. First off, he couldn't tell if he was being facetious or not. Second, although he knew of his strong bond with John, Sherlock never referred to the both of them in terms of cases. He loved being the center of attention, and every chance he got he would single himself out as the sole provider of information.

"Uh...alright, go on then." He watched them begin to go. "Oh, and John..." Greg put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry about your sister, mate. You let me know if you need anything at all." He said in a low but warm voice. John smiled at him and nodded. _Ordinary condolences are so bizarre. What good do they do for the grieving person? Nothing, that's what._ Sherlock thought with half a frown. He followed John as they left the office.

He tried to drag the case out as long as possible, but dammit it was so easy. There was only so much he could do. Why couldn't Scotland Yard deliver a great case when he actually wanted them to?

As they watched the tri-colored lights arrive and arrest the criminal (there were two of them actually...so predictable), John asked Sherlock a question he didn't necessarily have an answer to.

"Well this was fun and all, but why did you need me for this particular case? It was actually quite simple...I called off work, you know."

"I suppose your involvement wasn't a complete necessity...but it's so boring doing these alone now. Plus your receptionist has the flu, you wouldn't want to be catching that would you?" It wasn't a question as more of a statement.

"My recep-how do you know that? Oh never mind."

"Well how about we try out that cafe, the one by the market?" Sherlock knew how John favored the end part of a case, the part where they got to talk about it over something hot and fresh. Never admitting it, Sherlock rather liked that part as well.

"Yeah sure, let's go then."

They sat, ordered, ate. Sherlock ate..._oh this is odd_. John's plate was untouched, Sherlock's almost empty. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? Suddenly, his mind went into overdrive. Over the course of the following seconds, Sherlock's brain pulled up images of the last week. A full fridge, untouched plates, clean toaster ovens. In fact, Sherlock had made most of the tea this past week, and that never happened. He remembered seeing hand-cleaned scotch glasses, as if they weren't meant to be noticed being used.

_A cigarette butt on the doorstep._

John has never smoked in his life, save for one period of time. It took ages for him to confide in Sherlock that the only time he smoked was after his last tour in Afghanistan. At first glance at the incriminating object, Sherlock subconsciously assumed it was his own from a month ago when he caved for one. The thought of it being John's was like the thought that the Earth was flat.

"What? Why are you staring at me like that?" John asked. During those seconds of revelation, Sherlock realized he was staring at John with furrowed and incredulous eyes. He snapped out of it after hearing his friend's voice and sat up. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry. Thought I saw a gray hair by your ear."

John stared at him, not sure whether to be concerned or confused.

"Alright, weirdo, take a picture next time." He gestured for the bill.

They hailed a cab and arrived on Baker street not longer after.

Halfway through the entry way, Sherlock turned around and faced John (who nearly ran into him from the sudden stop).

"What are you doing?" He asserted.

"John do me a favor and slide this under the door for the flats across the street." He said cooly, handing him an envelope. He thanked his brilliance for snagging it off of Lestrade's desk earlier in the day...he did actually need it for something. But this would occupy John for the next 60 seconds so he could go up to the flat alone, thus it took precedence. John stared at him oddly.

"Sherlock, you are acting very strange today. Are you alright?" Not betraying his seamless demeanor, Sherlock's heart sank just a bit. Here was his best friend, in a probably depressed state, several pounds lighter than a week ago...asking if someone else was alright.

"Yes, of course." He said. "I just forgot to do it earlier...it's for one of the residents. I saw them debating on whether they wanted to come to us or not with a love affair issue. Stupid really, but they ultimately decided against it. It's just an envelope with a paper saying 'yes, she is cheating on you. Free of charge, you're welcome.'"

"You're something else, Sherlock." John said as he began to descend the stairs. Sherlock calmly entered the building, closed the door, and raced upstairs. He flung open the door to John's room, expecting to have to do the quickest searching of his life. John was a military man, he kept things neat and orderly. He was going to look for anything that caused immediate concern. If John was _smoking_, he was absolutely not well. _Smoking and drinking._ He didn't smoke because it was a nasty habit looked down upon in the Army, and he was turned off the habitual drinking because of his now dead sister. He should have watched him closer.

He threw the door open and prepared himself for the best places to look. But when he opened the door and flicked the lights on, it was nothing like he had seen John's room appear before. It was a disaster...clothes were strewn everywhere, a few books were scattered across the floor, his work supplies lay out openly. It looked worse than Sherlock's room.

He stood there in shock; John despised mess. Now his personal room was the equivalent to some of the run-down houses they searched together looking for criminals. His eyes flicked to the bedside table...a gun.

A gun? John owned a few, naturally, but he NEVER left them out. Why was there a gun on the table? His imagination raced. He knew John had been depressed before, before they knew each other. How bad was it before? How bad is it now? _Why is there a gun on the table? Why is there a gun on the table next to the bed? Why is there a gun on the table in the open? Why is there a gun? Why is there a gun?_

"What are you doing?"

The accusing voice made Sherlock whip around to face John, who was still holding the envelope. His eyes looked dangerous.

"The envelope, it was empty." He continued, holding up the envelope and looking at both it and Sherlock with indiction.

"You've apparently picked up bad habits from me." Sherlock said quietly, referencing the fact that John decided to inspect the envelope.

"Sherlock, what are you doing in my room? What in the hell as gotten into you today?" He repeated. Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of pity and sadness. John hated that look. He'd seen it far too many times.

"John...look at your room. You haven't eaten, you've been drinking...I found a cigarette on the doorstep."

John looked at him through his brow, his head low. His breathing increased with subtle anger.

"Yes, congratulations Sherlock. Marvelous job." His voice was low and dripping with disdain.

"Perhaps you need help, John, I-"

"Enough, Sherlock." He said in a staccato. It eerily reminded Sherlock of the same statement Mycroft had said before.

"I don't need help, Sherlock. I'm, this isn't, my sister died, did you know?"

Sherlock stared at him, choosing his next words carefully.

"The gun, on your bedside-"

"I do own a gun, thank you."

"I-yes, I am aware." His rare patience held strongly.

"What is your point, Sherlock? Are you surprised that I'm not bouncing up and down? That I'm a bit of a mess? Is that something your great mind couldn't have predicted would be happening to a person who's family has died?" His anger was bubbling.

"Of course I expected it, but, you were acting...fine. You've been keeping this all to yourself, and, well I'm concerned John. There's a gun out in the open, for God's sake!"

John sighed and rubbed his jaw. His demeanor changed from angry to weary.

"Look, Sherlock." He sighed again. "I don't know what you're thinking right now, but the gun is out because I was cleaning it. It's, soothing in a way. For someone like me. I know it's odd to leave it out, but my mind's been off. I just forgot to put it away, alright?" He looked up at him. Sherlock could tell he was speaking the truth. Suddenly very tired, John rested his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. Sherlock followed, sitting across from him, his back to the bed.

"We don't need to talk about it." said Sherlock. "You don't need to say anything."

John kept his head down, his hand on his forehead and his elbows on his knees.

"But...I do want you to know that you mean very much to me. And I hate seeing you in this way. I have not faced death in the way you have, and there is no way I can console or advise you. But it does not change the fact that your pain affects me, and the thought of my not being able to do anything for you is an even worse revelation."

It was strange, having those words hang in the air. Both men knew how much they meant to each other, how strong their friendship had become. But they rarely said so...they didn't really need to. So it being confessed and evidenced was oddly strange. But in a way...especially for John...comforting.

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip. John was still silent except for his breathing. After what seemed like several minutes, John looked up with glossy eyes.

"I know Sherlock. I'm sorry. I know you're just...concerned, in your own peculiar way." Sherlock smiled slightly. At least his John was still here.

"It's been hell...thinking about her. When she died. How alone she must have felt...what her mind was thinking that forced her to take in so much. It's worse than anything I've ever thought about for...she was my _sister,_ Sherlock. We grew up together. We played together. She was my baby sister." His voice was beginning to break, but John was strong. He wouldn't break down now. Not in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock knew that John probably felt guilt, but he also know that John was aware that there was nothing he could have done about it anyway. No point in referencing it. He gave a low chuckle.

"How strange. Here we are, grown men on the floor."

John chuckled too.

"We've gone through it all together, John Watson. You and me, chasing murderers and solving puzzles. How extraordinary we are...finding such a satisfying life in that danger." John just listened, his heart calming.

"We've become experts on injury, peril, mystery...but dammit, you put raw emotions into the mix and suddenly we're on the floor."

John gave an honest laugh and looked at the man across the floor from him. Even though many things were said between them, what was going through his mind at that moment still didn't need speaking. Sherlock Holmes had saved his life in so many ways. And he would be so, so incredibly alone without him.


End file.
